


Forget me not

by Perlmord



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch, F/F, Flowers, Fluff, Overwatch - Freeform, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-02 01:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17255432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perlmord/pseuds/Perlmord
Summary: With a deep sigh, Ziegler swivels around in her office chair idly, her short golden tresses dangling openly an inch or two past her chin. It takes her a moment to realize that O’Deorain is staring ahead at her, past her steaming cup of tea. She offers her a smile and tilts her head, but doesn’t say anything to disrupt her thoughts. Another moment passes until she finally adverts her gaze, cheeks holding a pang of redness. She knows she’s been caught. Silence fills the room.“I llike your hair better this way,” she eventually says.





	Forget me not

**Author's Note:**

> hit me with the critic pls

> ~~~~

With a deep sigh, Ziegler swivels around in her office chair idly, her short golden tresses dangling openly an inch or two past her chin. It takes her a moment to realize that O’Deorain is staring ahead at her, past her steaming cup of tea. She offers her a smile and tilts her head, but doesn’t say anything to disrupt her thoughts. Another moment passes until she finally adverts her gaze, cheeks holding a pang of redness. She knows she’s been caught. Silence fills the room.

 

 

 

 

“I like your hair better this way,” she eventually says, receiving a considerate hum. “You suggest I leave it down more often?” Angela asks, sparing her the empty phrases of ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’ and the silence that follows. O’Deorain nods hesitantly after throwing another glance towards her. “It must disturb you whilst working, but it’s certainly a lot prettier.” Angela laughs; it’s warm and melodic and _real_.

 

 

 

  
“To hear a compliment as that come from you is – surprising.” O’Deorain shrugs limply and sips at her tea. Westminster – the berry mix, not too sweet, not too bitter. “It’s Christmas, is it not?” At that, Angela’s heart sets out for a beat or even two. She said it because of Christmas? No, that can’t be – she sounded genuine when she admitted she prefers her hair when it’s down, the colour in her cheeks can’t be imagined.

 

 

 

  
O’Deorain throws her another glance, heavy and low, glowing in the dimmed room. “It is,” Angela affirms after collecting a controlled breath, and looks back at her display. Then it’s silent again, only disturbed by her fingers flying over the keyboard and O’Deorain’s occasional sips at her cooling cup of tea and their breathing. “Did Morrison tell you, by the way?” The question is abrupt. Angela shifts, lets her eyes dart over to O’Deorain again. “Tell me what?” A smile curls her lips. “That I’m going to leave.”

 

 

 

  
She blinks, her heart jumps into her throat to pound there frantically. “Excuse me?” O’Deorain rises to her feet and places her meanwhile empty cup aside. It clinks against the glassy desk plate. “I’m leaving to Blackwatch. Reyes offered me to transfer two days ago and gave me time to consider. I accepted today.” Angela stares at her in disbelief. Her heartbeat finally slows to a halfway normal pace again; she clears her throat and lowers her head. She wants to ask _why_ , but it’s not like she’d receive an honest answer, or an answer at all.

 

 

 

  
“I – wish you good luck, then. Is assuming that you’ll have a similar job as me too bold?” O’Deorain shakes her head. “They do intend for me to be their field medic, so I believe that _will_  be my task, yes.” Angela exhales slowly and forces a smile onto her lips. “I see. When will you leave?” She flashes her a grin. “Can’t wait to get rid of me, can you, Ziegler?” Her lips part in surprise and offense, about to protest against that statement, but O’Deorain waves her hand dismissively. “You know I’m not serious. I’ll be gone by tomorrow evening.”

 

 

 

  
              _That_ _soon?_             Angela gathers another deep breath to fill her lungs and calm her frayed nerves. She doesn’t say anything after that, too afraid that O’Deorain will only make this harder for her. Her head spins. Who is going to guide her through the surgeries and keep her shackled to the ground? Who is going to take her place? There must be someone, she can’t possibly be promoted to be head of medical on her own, correct? She only joined Overwatch a few months ago, there must be someone more suitable for that kind of job.

 

 

 

  
O’Deorain clips past her, only to stop right behind her. Upon that, Angela turns her head to look up at the scientist, but firm fingers grip at her neck and push it down gently, but persistently. “Relax.” How is she supposed to relax? Her every vein is pulsing with fear and shock and despair; how can O’Deorain once again demand the impossible? But Angela tries; as she always does. Her shoulders slump down, she lets her head hang down. Warm fingertips press into her neck, she sucks in a surprised breath, but upon the quiet clicking of her superior’s tongue, she swallows and lets her work her magic.

 

 

 

  
Her hands are soon all over her shoulders and upper back, pressing and massaging and rubbing in spots that Angela never knew needed tending to. O’Deorain breaks her into hundred little pieces and tells her how strong she is. She cups her neck, lets warmth seep into Angela’s cold skin and presses a chaste kiss to the beauty mark above her cheekbone. Angela’s breathing is heavy and slow, her eyelids fall shut and O’Deorain soothes her into sleep ridiculously easily.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
She wakes at past nine in the morning, in her room, in her bed, tucked into her blanket. Angela furrows her brows. She does not remember having gone to bed. She pushes her blanket off and checks herself over. Her shoes have been taken off as well as her lab coat, but she’s still in the same jeans and turtleneck as yesterday. A moment passes. And then she recalls yesterday evening – her cheeks burn in embarrassment, her fingers tremble against the sheets. That – thing yesterday, that was real.

 

 

 

  
Angela inhales deeply. Why did she let her do that?                  _It_   _felt_ _good_.               She gave herself up to her desires; once again. Luckily enough, it didn’t escalate. But, in all honesty, Angela doesn’t think she would have allowed her to _fuck_  her. The sad thing about it is: neither of them would have worried about awkward work circumstances after that – O’Deorain would have left to Blackwatch either way. So why hasn’t Angela done anything when O’Deorain leaned down to peck her cheek?

 

 

 

  
It’s then that her breath gets caught in her throat. What was her intention? To soothe her? She could have continued to massage her instead; why would she  _kiss_  her? It’s an act of intimacy, nothing to be done as co-workers, much less as boss and assistant. At least she didn’t kiss her lips. That would have been a signal even stronger and it would have made her mind even fuzzier.

 

 

 

  
Angela glances at her nightstand, at her digital alarm clock. All dusty. She’s rarely  
up here. Did O’Deorain carry her? She can’t imagine her doing that. Why not fetch a blanket and drape it over her instead? Plus: O’Deorain is a scientist, not a soldier. Morrison or Reyes would and could have done that; but not O’Deorain, gangly and thin as she is.

 

 

 

  
She sighs. She’s late already, why not draw it out and make it inexcusably late and enjoy a warm shower to refresh and have a thorough breakfast, why not draw it out and not even show up at all and take a day off involuntarily, it’s shameless enough to think of O’Deorain, Angela can’t and doesn’t want to fathom how horrible it’d be to see her again.

 

 

 

  
Perhaps it is good that O’Deorain will leave. At least now, she won’t have to look her in the eyes again, at least not anytime soon. The weekly check-ups with Genji are still set, though she’s sure she can avoid O’Deorain during that time, or  
even better, now that O’Deorain is stationed at Blackwatch, she can take that task and check Genji over every week. Far easier! Maybe she should ask Morrison about it.

 

 

 

  
And here comes the hard part: is it justified? It was a kiss. Maybe she imagined the kiss? She was drunk on sleep. What if it was part of her dream? What if it was all part of her dream and O’Deorain took her upstairs in a half-asleep state and the massage didn’t happen at all? What a cruel world, she can’t even separate what’s real and what’s illusional. Maybe she should lay back down and keep sleeping.

 

She sighs again. No, she can’t do that, she has to approach O’Deorain about yesterday, her feelings about the whole situation are secondary. She must know what’s real and what’s not first.

 

 

 

  
A shower would still do her good, O’Deorain can wait, she decides as she gets up and scans her wardrobe to find suitable clothes to change into after theshower.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
The scent of oranges and vanilla wafts through the canteen. This does not originate from the food, though. It’s almost ten and Angela snatches herself a plate and flashes the friendly lady prepping the food a smile. “Good morning,” she chirps. The lady turns, surprised. “Oh.” Angela laughs. “Yes, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see me here. Don’t tell the others, they’ll pull me along every other time. I believe they think I don’t even know where the canteen is,” she jokes light-heartedly.

 

 

 

  
The lady chuckles. “I’m sorry, I don’t have much left. Most is in the stomachs of your teammates,” she says apologetically. “And what’s with the other one per cent?” Angela asks hopefully. “Still here. I was going to put it away. What would you like?” A knowing smile stretches over Angela’s smile and she leans forward to tell her sheepishly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
The door hisses shut behind herself. O’Deorain is sitting at her desk, scribbling something down eagerly. Angela falters. “What are you doing here, shouldn’t you be packing bags?” O’Deorain doesn’t lift her head, but Angela knows she’s smiling. “You’re late.” The blonde scowls and brushes back a few strands of her hair. Let down, like yesterday. “I wouldn’t be if you hadn’t pursued me into sleep,” she snaps. A chuckle. “You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself. How could I not?”

 

 

 

  
She exhales sharply and rolls her eyes, steps closer towards her. “Did you take me up to my room?” O’Deorain nods. “Affirmative. You were rather … compliant.” So that means she probably wasn’t asleep. “You almost dozed off standing.” No, she wasn’t asleep. Angela swallows, wants to thank her, but her throat feels tight and she swallows again to get rid of the lump in her throat. Angela wets her lips briefly and extends a hand to toy with the soft, short hairs at her neck. O’Deorain stiffens beneath the touch. She doesn’t retrieve her hand. Because O’Deorain doesn’t ask her to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Angela returns to the lab at five PM, she finds O’Deorain to still sit there,but she’s not working. She sits there, relaxed, arms folded over her chest. She discarded her lab coat over her desk chair, her head is lowered to rest on her chest, her eyes are closed, Angela observes when she comes closer silently. She rests a hand on her shoulder, causing her to lift her head and look up at her out of her cool blue orbs. “Why are you still here?” Angela asks, her voice soft.

 

 

 

  
Instead of an answer, O’Deorain nods towards her own desk. Angela turns to look at it. There’s a present, small, wrapped in dark red paper and adorned with a white ribbon. It looks neat. She lets up on O’Deorain and clips towards it, picks it up. “I don’t think I want to open this in your presence …”

 

She trails off, twists it in her hands. “What makes you think it’s from me?” Angela’s breath gets caught in her throat. “I don’t know. It looks so neat. Wrapped with great care. I don’t know anyone to be as much of a perfectionist to make sure the wrapping looks perfect apart from you.”

 

 

 

  
“Please open it,” O’Deorain requests after a moment of silence. Angela huffs and sits down at the same time as O’Deorain gets up. She listens to the slow steps on the linoleum as she unties the ribbon and carefully tears the wrapping away.  
Whoever gave this to her used Sellotape to glue it together.

 

It looks like it was sized down to the box’s size. It’s easy to open. Beneath is a small box, pristinely white. Angela doesn’t know what to expect. The size and its appearance make it seem like it’s a necklace or a bracelet or something of that sort.

 

 

 

  
She hopes it’s neither. She wouldn’t know what to if O’Deorain really bought her an  
accessorise.

 

 

 

  
When she lifts the lid, there’s nothing that winks at her from beneath, no piece of metal or diamonds to glint in the dim light. She’s relieved; a smile spreads  
over her face, she swears she heard O’Deorain let go of a held breath. Instead, there’s a paper nestled on top of a bundle of forget-me-nots. She unfolds it. A love letter? Impossible. She swallows.

 

“Am I to read this now?” O’Deorain shrugs. “Whichever way you prefer,” she breathes. It’s a lot. A whole DIN-A4 sheet full of curvy ink writing. “I think I’d rather read this on my own, to savour it,” she decides after a moment.

 

 

 

  
O’Deorain nods. “However you’d like.” Angela hesitates, folds it and places it back in the carton and smiles at O’Deorain. “Why’d you kiss me yesterday?” Her lips twitch into a nervous smile. It quivers around the edges.

“Right, I wondered when you’d ask that … I like you. I know I shouldn’t – and I most definitely should not have kissed you, even though it was only a kiss on the cheek, but … and this is a big but: I like you. Maybe that was the wrong way of expressing my fondness, but I thought that perhaps you deserve more love or appreciation – from my side.”

 

 

 

  
Angela feels her hopes of it not being a love letter shatter. It’s very likely to be.  
She smiles, though, sheepishly, at the ground.

 

“It’s alright, I wasn’t awake enough to really register it, as you probably noticed.” O’Deorain grimaces. “Yes, I very well did. You fell asleep on me for a second, after all.” Her cheeks catch fire once more. “I’m sorry.”

 

 

 

  
Silence.

 

 

  
“How about you make it up to me by buying me a coffee?” O’Deorain asks  
half-jokingly, causing Angela to look up; surprised, and laugh.

 

“I-I mean, why not?” She shakes her head. “No, I was joking.”

 

Upon that, Angela becomes painfully aware that it’s her choice now. Deepen the relationship, give it a try, or not? “I wasn’t,” Angela says softly, reaching for O’Deorain’s hand, which twitches away. She plays with the button on O’Deorain’s sleeve instead. Seconds pass, the air electrified, Angela holds her breath.

 

 

 

  
“Fine.”

 

 


End file.
